


The Quarrel

by Arithanas



Series: The Count and his Valet [9]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: 24/7, Babies, Commented Suicidal Thoughts, D/s, Drinking to Cope, M/M, Master/Servant, pushing buttons, relationship negociation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-03
Updated: 2012-08-03
Packaged: 2018-03-24 22:26:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3786574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY: 1934, Bragelonne. A new life, a new home, a new baby? That was to much to bear and Grimaud attempted to left his service. When his master prevent it, the Breton spoke his mind and he spoke it with no holds barred. Grimaud POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Quarrel

_The art of being a slave is to rule one’s master.  
~ Diogenes_

  
His behavior was very strange since the trip to Toulouse, my work was doubly hard because he seemed annoyed of everything going on around him and last winter, for the first time since I worked for him, he had ordered to put out the fire, arguing that he could not stand the heat. Every time he saw a woman, in his face appeared an expression of scorn and his whole attitude changed when one of them entered a room, no matter that it was the plump wife of Charlot; I had not seen him like this since the early days after his wife. At night he tossed and turned in bed, panting and grunting as if he were in pain, but in the morning I could not figure out what was troubling him. In the morning, he came back to be the perfect gentleman that his father had raised.  
  
Then my master began to give up many things. He stopped fencing; instead he spent long hours sat at the window. He stopped drinking in the taverns, preferring to quench his thirst at home; and he didn’t ride his horse again, which was one of the things that put him in a better mood. He began to be quite negligent in his Musketeer service by his own stern standards and, had he not persisted in his resignation, M. de Treville had not taken too long to ask him to render an account about his peculiar state of agitation.  
  
Regarding me, he was still the master. He met his powers to beat me if I not served him as he wanted, but I had been unable to meet his wishes, since he changed his mind every five minutes. Sometimes he forgot that he had ordered me something, and then got mad because I wanted to impose something on him. The details that made tolerable to serve him were not there anymore. He could spend days without a bit, as long as he had a bottle handy, but I needed to eat; he could withdraw and spend hours looking at a wall. He could ignore me, but I needed him to realize my presence.  
  
When the letter came and informed him that Bragelonne was his property, I thanked God on my knees for disturbing our tranquility. A new home meant a lot of shouting on his part, and many orders to fulfill on my part. He would have to notice that I was there; if he wanted get things done, and he would want get things done his way: fast and neat. The first two weeks were almost like going back to our old life: he ordered, I obeyed. There was much work to do and I did it gladly. The change did him good, he even started talking about spending the rest of his life in this old castle, improving things, including me in his plans. He could continue drinking as if his goal was to drown from the inside, but he was out of his stagnation. He had become _The Master_ again, with full rights.  
  
When I woke up this morning and he wasn’t in the house, I didn’t worry. His horse wasn’t in the stall and a part of me was glad that he wished to ride out; for it just meant to me that he would be in a better mood when he returned. Whatever had been bothering him, it no longer mattered. Now things could only improve.  
  
I took my time to check the crates and accommodate his possessions in their proper rooms. While I worked, I fantasized about his satisfaction at seeing that the old mansion was beginning to seem like his home. I don’t even notice the passage of time until the light began to fail while I polished the silverware. At that time, I admit it, I felt apprehension; my master was more than capable of taking care of himself but, lately, he was too drunk to be entrusted with that task.  
  
Soon after, I heard a shout on the gate and I went to face the biggest surprise of my life.

***

  
I saw him cradling the baby after feeding him, he seemed pleased with the presence of his son, and I resented his very existence. I was no stupid and I knew how to made additions and subtractions. My master did not tell me the boy was begotten in Roche-l’Abeille, but I was sure about it. There were two bottles over the table, one for the child, one for the father; and the fact that he was drinking while taking care of that boy unsettled me ever more. I could not stand it. I knew it was beyond my strength to take care of two helpless creatures.  
  
Especially a baby, God forgive me but I never liked small children.  
  
I always assumed that he also disliked children. I never witnessed a smile on his face when he saw a group of children, and the noise they made always annoyed him. He liked his silence and simple and neat things, since he was a child. Nonetheless, during those last two hours, he seemed entranced by that little one who cried and whined constantly. He did not feel bothered by cluttering his room and mess his shirts, so to ensure that the child was comfortable. In a blink, he completely changed only by the kid.  
  
Well... almost entirely. In two hours he had emptied four bottles, a clear sign of his uneasiness. At that time I missed it, the last year he had been drinking as if his mission in life was exhausting the stocks of all the vineyards of France.  
  
During those two hours, I made the hardest decision of my life. I was going to leave his service, voluntarily, and without knowing what would be of me. Everything in my nature rebelled at the thought of leaving, but the choice was to stay and see how he devoted himself to get drunk and to neglect the child, that he seemed to want to preserve at all costs. I knew I could not live in the conditions in which he tried to force me to accept.  
  
I begged the Heavens to have the strength to leave him once and forever.  
  
I steeled myself and went to the chair where he sat, got down on one knee and with all the reverence I could muster, I kissed his hand in what I thought would be my last act of submission to him. I know he felt something, we had lived too long together—most of that time without speaking a word; we were accustomed to understand each other by acts and looks. Discourses were unnecessary between us.  
  
“Grimaud?” he managed to call me before I reached the door.  
  
“I am going to beg for work in another castle,” it was my reply, and I really mean it.  
  
“What is this nonsense?” in his voice was a genuine surprise and alarm.  
  
I heard the question, but I still left the room, and then the castle, taking with me only what I carried on my back. I was sad and frightened, the only life I knew was at his side, but the anger spurred me with the same force as it once did devotion, although in the opposite direction. I heard his footsteps on the steps of the _perron_ , but I did not look back, I knew that if I saw him, my intentions would worth less than nothing; he could still dominate with one look of his eyes.  
  
“Grimaud, enough of this foolishness,” he ordered me as he stepped on the courtyard. “I need you inside to help me with Raoul...”  
  
For the first time since I knew him, the words ‘I need you’ in his lips meant nothing to me. I have served him faithfully, I deserved that he let me go and his insistence made me furious. I turned around and faced him, but I do not know what I intended to accomplish with that. Having an argument with him wouldn’t change a thing. The first words out of my mouth surprised me, but they felt so good that I didn’t regretted saying them.  
  
“Don’t count on me to raise your bastard,” I snapped at his face with malice, knowing how much that word would hurt him, but wishing with all my heart to cause him pain.  
  
His face showed me that the first injury had cut deeply, but still they did not dissuade him from trying. Instead of raising his hand to hit me, as he could have done before, his hand touched my shoulder and held on tight to my shirt. I should recognize the gesture, now I regret not seeing it in its proper dimension.  
  
“Be reasonable,” he asked me so softly, his eyes asking the same but there was no fire behind them. “Stay.”  
  
_Laosk ac'hanon ma-unan_ , was the immediate response that came to my mind. _Leave me alone,_ I thought. That scared me. How long since I thought Breton language? Since I started working in his father's house, when I was five, at least.  
  
“No,” I pulled my shirt from his iron hand, and took a few steps backwards, trying to not trip me over the ledge of the neglected planting beds. “I have no patience to raise two babies, and if I had a choice, I prefer to take care of him, because I know that at least he will stop wetting his pants in two years!”  
  
“That remark was uncalled-for,” he chided me but his face showed his deep mortification, only both of us knew what happen when he was in his cups.  
  
“I don’t lie.”  
  
"I'm not saying you did it," a sigh escaped his lips and he dropped his hands. "But you can’t leave without telling me why."  
  
I looked at him dumbfounded. He really did not understand why I was leaving him and that aggravated me. I couldn’t stop what I had in my head.  
  
“I’ve been by your side more than twenty years in a row,” I complained to his face. “I’ve watched you and I’ve protected you all the time and I just hoped for some humanity within that body that the wine has do not spoiled yet”. That statement made him cringe, but I continued. “You said that this mature age you’ll let me serve you and I’ll rest in the countryside. You said we’d both be in this house, that we would spend peacefully the rest of our lives. I believed you!”  
  
“He was not an expected acquisition.”  
  
“Then send him back to his mother!”  
  
“He has no mother!” the Count shouted to me in the same exasperated tone he used when I do something really bovine. I must have grazed an unseen wound. “My son will never need no mother!”  
  
“Everyone needs a mother...”  
  
“...Said the castle’s orphan!”  
  
That was enough; I whipped that ever-present haughty smirk of his face with a solid blow. I sensed my knuckles collide against his jaw and I saw him stagger backwards, with a shocked expression that would have been really laughable at another time. Was it adequate to remind me that my parents departed before I could get a remembrance of them? Good, because I do remember his parents.  
  
“At least my mother did not abandon me!” I spat at him.  
  
For the blow that struck my ribs, I grasped that my words had lanced deep as a knife. Olivier always resented the fact that his mother leaved him and go to serve the Queen Mother in Paris, instead of staying at La Fère to protect him. Like many things in his life, he was trying not to remember that and if someone brought it up he exploded like a barrel of powder. At that time, I was more than happy to make him remember and enjoyed the savage glee that overcame me almost as much as the blow with which I responded to his aggression.  
  
“You jealous, thwarting bitch!”  
  
“Don’t call me that!” I yelled and raise my fist. “You lost that right!”  
  
I was really surprised when the second strike hit home for I knew it was no match for him, even in the advanced state of inebriation in which he was. Years of being his quintain had taught me to avoid his punches, but I had never managed to pass on his defenses. I became bolder when I noticed that my fist really touched him but the much expected satisfaction I crave was frankly reduced when he blocked my next attack and refused to return my punch.  
  
“I understand you're upset...” He began with a tone of condescension that rekindled my anger.  
  
Upset? The word does not even begin to define how I felt. As the words were not enough to show my anger, I fell upon him with a hail of punches while he devoted himself to dodge and block. Occasionally, my fist found his ribs or his head, but even in those moments he had no retaliation. Why he didn’t fight back?  
  
I'm not sure how we ended up on the floor, his weight pinning me down and his hand holding my shirt by the shoulder. Not my shoulder, my shirt. I writhed beneath him, trying to break free, ignoring the words he tried to get into my head in desperation, I thought I heard something like fear in his voice, but surely my ears deceived me. The man that all my life had dominated me with a look was now trying to reason with me, and I failed to understand how that simple fact didn’t force me to realize that the situation was more serious than my eyes could see.  
  
“Listen!” he barked an order, almost as if it was a plea, trying to stay away from my fists. “You had vented your anger, now listen to me!”  
  
Like hell I was going to listen anymore! Also, I had not yet finished indulging my anger, my hands sought his neck and he threw his head back, dodging my attack. His hands slid over my chest and my shoulders left the ground.  
  
“I have to stop drinking!” the Count yelled, trying to get my attention.  
  
Of course he needed to stop drinking; he was in sour need to get sober for more than ten years!  
  
“Late for that!”  
  
My frustrated shriek should have surprised him for I toppled him without effort; I saw his head hit the ground with massive force and he crossed his arms over his face to protect himself while I straddled his midriff.  
  
“I would never do it by myself!”  
  
“Too bad!”  
  
Then, as I raise my fist, he let his arms fall down to the ground exposing himself to my wrath. I was out of my mind, but as my arm began to fall, I saw his face. He had no expression. His mouth had no barren teeth on defiance. There was not a furrowed brow to hold me in contempt. His eyes never cringed faced with the imminent coup. On the moonlight only his deep, dark blue eyes spoke to me. He always knew how to hold a complete dissertation with one short gaze.  
  
_Hurt me!_ Those hunted eyes said to me, _I deserve all the damage you want to inflict on me._  
  
I had seen that look before...

***

  
It was the day the Count returned from that chase without his wife. He stormed into the castle, took down the portrait of the Old Count and broke the expensive frame before rolling the canvas over the jeweled sword that always was over the mantelpiece. Immediately after, he rushed out of the castle, as if the legions of hell were after him.  
  
He was leaving the castle.  
  
In great haste.  
  
Without his wife.  
  
For me, it was blatantly clear: Something was wrong...  
  
I did what I had been trained to do: I packed his valise and mine; I took the first horse that came to my hands in the stable and followed him. I found him on the banks of the river, his whole posture spoke of defeat but my master was trying to keep his composure by dint of pride; it was like seeing a dead tree, hollow inside, but it stood only by the miracle of a hard bark. As I approached, my master threatened me with the first weapon he could find. I still think that I saved my life only because the Count realized he was about to stain the most sacred family relic with plebeian blood.  
  
“What are you doing here?”  
  
“I did our luggage because we travel, ain’t we?”  
  
His reaction was quick. My master raised his fist, I thought he was going to hit me for my insolence, but to my utter surprise, his fingers clutched the fabric of my shirt, by my upper arm, but he didn’t touch the flesh underneath it.  
  
“I’ll leave...” he said, and the tone in his voice told me I had no right of reply. “Go back to La Fère.”  
  
His eyes... God be praised! His eyes...  
  
Those blue eyes told me he was knowingly looking for a punishment, that at that very moment his life was worthless, that no torture would be enough for what he had done, whatever it was.  
  
“May I go with the master?” I insisted; those eyes had scared the living lights out of me. I was sure that if I left him at the mercy of his own devices, my master would take his own life, such was the hatred he felt for himself, a hate which was presented plainly before my eyes.  
  
His hand clung compulsively to the haft of the sword; his hair was stuck to his temples with sweat and every time he breathed all his muscles quivered, as if every involuntary effort to hold on life caused him an indescribable pain. I hold my breath, trying not to exacerbate that feeling that boiled within him, out of fear that that cauldron spilled out and ended burning us both.  
  
I wonder how long that silent fight between us lasted. I didn’t know what tipped the balance to what I thought was the most favorable outcome. Be understood that we are speaking of keep him alive. What I do know is that the expression in his eyes, although not completely changed, at least softened enough to stop causing me chills.  
  
“I think I can trust you, you could denounce me before I commit the worst stupidity of my life and you chose to be loyal,” my master accepted, shoulders slumped, his face expressionless, but his eyes were haunted and wet. “You’re the only person who never hurt me...” He sighed. If the Count ever came close to collapse and pour out his self-pity that was the exact moment. Instead he let me go, pulled himself together, sheathed his precious sword and said: “You can come with me, but you must be completely silent. Understood?”  
  
I nodded, renouncing completely to use my voice, exchanging it for his life and for the pleasure of serving him.  
  
It was such a small price.

***

  
...It's a shame I couldn’t stop my fist.  
  
‘This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you’. I heard it from so many people who beat me before this day, but never from the half conscious man who was lying in the ground beneath my shaking body. Maybe I knocked him out, but it was me who was morally exhausted, seized by my self-disgust and hard earned pangs of guilt. The baby was crying inside the castle and his helpless cries sent shivers down my spine.  
  
There was only one way to be forgiven, and that was not going to happen while gloat over my reproachful distress.  
  
Like many other Parisian nights, I bent down to pass his arm over my shoulder to help him return home. He mumbled something, but I didn't care about it; the only concern in my mind was to keep his hipbone over my own hip to control his gait and my hand in his ribs to prevent him from stumbling on the stairway. The sound of our steps in the hall marked a counterpoint to the baby’s cries. Trying to get the Count to his room would be sheer insanity and letting him take care of a baby in his actual situation would be a raving madness; I was very sorry, but the Count had to settle for the drawing-room which was the closest room with some furniture to set down his inebriated dead-weight while I went to see to the boy.  
  
I let his weigh slide from my frame to the big chair. He wasn't completely senseless and tried to stay in his seat; his long, buckled hair rested on a dusty shirt, there was a small trail of blood on the corner of his mouth. I had seen him in worst shape. Our eyes clashed for a moment, his were surprised because I was still there. I had no time for a second round —the boy's cries were driving me crazy— so we had to work it out later. Still, his quick hand took me by the sleeve and stopped me.  
  
“Grimaud?”  
  
It was clear that the Count demanded an explanation.  
  
“Later!”  
  
I climbed the stairs in long strides, eager to stop that infernal noise. How could I live in this house if I couldn't stand little children?  
  
I entered the Count's room, the boy was laid in a wet spot, bawling his discomfort and shaking his little fist to the canopy, purple-faced with frustration. This little tableau made me smile, there was something familiar in it, and my smile was wider when I picked him up and he ceased his protests. I tried to change his diaper, but I found myself too ham-fisted for the task. Soon, I had him nude and wrapped on a piece of linen, it was a crude job but at least the child was silent, dry and warm, leaning against my chest, with his left hand balling a bunch of my shirt.  
  
He was his father’s son.  
  
I descended the staircase with the baby in my arms and peered into the drawing-room. The master of the house had dozed off in his chair... As far as I could see, things were unraveling just like I suspected they could develop: With all the responsibilities over my shoulders.  
  
I went to found a basket full with bed sheets and kicked it to drawing-room. I let the boy snuggle between the clean bed linen, fully aware that Raoul would wet them, but refusing to carry with him all night. I sat beside the fake crib. I was really awake and full of remorse. I could go away anyway, Charlot and his wife would be here in one or two days, I'm sure the Count could manage a couple of days since he was more capable than me to take care of his boy, at least he could change a diaper. My eyes wandered to his sleeping shape, this baby was almost as hard to take for him as the fiasco with his wife. He was right; he'd never tear himself away from a bottle in this situation. He was at the end of his rope. The Count needed someone to watch his back or to pick up the pieces after his fall.  
  
That had been my job for years. I had to stay.  
  
I spent a couple of lazy hours between his drunken snores and a baby who insisted on get a hold on my thumb in his sleep. The Count woke up first, apparently the boy was a heavy sleeper since he barely stirred at the racket made by a half-drunk man in a place full of crates and furniture; I let him realize that he was too wasted to take a hike before walking away from the makeshift crib to look him in the eye, what I had to tell the Count was too important for not doing it man to man.  
  
He had returned to his seat and sat with his head in his hands. I was hoping that the hangover would allow him to understand me. I kneel in the floor and he noticed me. His face, bathed in poor moonlight, showed gratitude and mortification. We are just equally proud of the scuffle in which we took part; a gaze exchange was enough to ponder our guilt over the matter.  
  
“Our agreement is beyond repair, isn't it?”  
  
I shook my head.  
  
“Tomorrow everything will be back as it was. I will have your breakfast and your clothes ready. I even heat up his milk,” I said to him. “You’ll be my master again.” I noticed a small glimmer of hope in those eyes filled with alcohol and thought it was better to stipulate very clear rules: “But if you ever get sozzled again, I’ll leave. I’ll abandon this house so quietly, that you’ll never notice when I left it. I swear it by the cross!”  
  
He didn’t answer. My master was a man of few words and that night he had said too many. His eyes looked at me as if trying to dig deep in my soul to see if I spoke those words seriously and I stared him back.

  
Then, in silence, he nodded to show that he agreed with my terms.


End file.
